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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
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POEMS. 



...BY... / 

REBECCA JANE SCHILLER. 



, . 1900. 

From the Evangelical Press, 
harrisburg, pa. 



TWO COPIES RECEIVED. 

Library of Ctegr9«%i 

f^AR 1 - 1900 









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g . j> t/ vJ* v> 



Copyrighted by 

Clara C. Schiller, 

I goo. 



SeC^UJ 



1 «^^ , 



AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED 
TO OUR PARENTS, 

^amnd Stoctjcr Srhtller 

AND 

TOnrgard Hciincs L,runs ^diilkc, 

ON THEIR 

golden wedding anniversary, 
January 3, 1900. 



Cntroiructot}), 



RtiiECCA Jane Schiller, was born in the town of 
Duncannon, Perry County, Pa., on the 24th day of 
October, 1850. She was the first-born of a family 
of twelve children. In childhood she was distin- 
guished for her precocity, and her intellectual and 
physical development were rapid. At an early age she 
was noted for her remarkable progress as a scholar in 
the Susquehanna Institute at Duncannon, and at four- 
teen years she entered Irving Female College at Me- 
chanicsburg, Pa., where she acquired high honor as a 
student. On her return she helped in the domestic 
duties of her home and became an assistant to her 
father in the mercantile business. For two and a- half 
years she assumed control of the Duncannon Record, 
writing the editorials and local news for that publica- 
tion, contributed to the columns of other journals, com- 
posed music, and taught many pupils instrumental 
music. Such is the brief record of a life of ceaseless 
activity that suddenly closed ere it reached its meridian; 
for while the shadows were still falling forward and the 
future was full of promise the decree came for the 
mortal to put on immortality. On a bright December 
morning in the glad Christmas time, on the 24th day of 
December, 1882, anxious friends and loving hearts were 
praying at the bedside for her recovery. 



vi INTRODUCTORY. 

"But when the sun in all his state 
Illumed the eastern skies 
She passed through Glory's morning gate 
And walked in Paradise." 

Many were the tributes rendered by devoted friends 
to her memory. The pastor of the church to which 
she was attached, wrote : •" She gave her heart to God, 
and united with the Methodist Episcopal Church at 
seventeen, and remained a consistent member. On 
Sunday morning while the church bells were summon- 
ing worshipers to God's earthly temples, she heard 
the bells of heaven calling her to join the company who 
worship around the throne. For many years she was 
an efficient organist. She carried the interests of the 
church conscientiously on her heart. Being a natural 
leader, she moved conspicuously in the church and in 
the community. Especially was she talented in music 
and in verse. She lived not for herself only, but for 
others as well." 

A friend who knew and esteemed her, said : "In life 
God had given her talents which were not folded up or 
hidden away. She possessed a poetic temperament, re- 
fined by education and cultivated by practice. Much 
of her literary work bears the unmistakable stamp of 
genius and shines with a genuine lustre in comparison 
with the gilded rubbish of the times. She was wai'm- 
hearted and devoted to her friends, an affectionate 
sister, a loving daughter, and a devout Christian. In 
her death she fully exemplified the truth of that ori- 
ental saying, ' We come into this world weeping, while 
all around us are rejoicing, we should so live that when 



]N!l«tl)rcrOK\'. vii 

we leave it we shall be rejoieijig while nil arouiul us are 
weeping.' " 

A former teacher, Prof. Joseph Dana IJartley, after 
the lapse of some time, says : "As I write after all 
the years, her features, voice and manners are as real 
as when I knew lier at the age of eleven and twelve 
years. I can see her earnest, expressionful eyes, her 
rosy cheeks, her charming, unaffected manners. No 
words of mine are needed to show that she was a child 
of rare characteristics of mind and heart, mature, 
thoughtful, accomplished far beyond her years, and all 
combined with a sweet modesty of conduct as unusual 
as it was charming." 

The above extracts, to which might be added niany 
others, showed the esteem in which she was held by 
those who knew her best. 

The following compilation of her fugitive poems 
shows what she was capable of accomplishing and jus- 
tiiies the prediction of the President of Irving College 
when he wrote to her father : " Your daughter is one 
of the very brightest girls we have ever had in this col- 
lege. She will make her mark if she lives. " Born and 
reared in Duncannon, "beautiful for situation," on the 
banks of the broad Susquehanna, just below the point 
where it receives the waters of the "Blue Juniata," 
girded around with lofty mountains, whose summits re- 
flected upon the tow n the Inst rays of the morning sun 
as he climbed up the gray wall of the eastern sky, her 
surroundings were calculated to de\elop the poetic 
genius of one so enamored of nature and so full of love 
for the beautiful as she saw it displayed in mountain, 
rock and river. Sometimes a strain of sadness follow 



viii INTRODUCTORY. 

her writing, like the shadow of a summer's cloud 
trailing over the landscape. To her friends it reveals 
the great sorrow of a young life, springing from the 
cold, dark grave that held the form of one who had 
her plighted vows and shai^ed her golden hopes for life's 
best endeavor. But in all she wrote, as in all her acts, 
there was displayed the simple, sublime faith of the 
Christian, that looks up through sorrow and suffering 
to the great Father of all, and says, in a chastened 
spirit of resignation, "Thy will be done." 

Her loyalty to her friends was unwavering, and to 
the few who were admitted to the inner sanctuary of 
her confidence, she revealed a heart free from guile and 
a spirit incapable of insincerity. Her life was pure 
and chaste as snow upon a mountain. When the ter- 
rible reality of approaching death came to her, she 
shuddered at the thought of a last and long farewell to 
home and friends, but with an almost cheerful and 
heroic resignation she waited the appointed time and 

" Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom, 
A shadow on those features fair and thin, 

And softly from that hushed and darkened room 
Two angels issued, where but one went in, ' 

From her grave in the quiet hillside cemetery there 
springs nothing but fond regret and tender recollec- 
tions, and, while loving hands in years to come will 
care for the "windowless house of rest " in which she 
lay down for her long dreamless sleep, her memory 
will remain for her friends and kindred as an inspira- 
tion and a blessing. 

Charles H, Smiley. 



WHAT I LOVE 

T LOVE the green woods, 

Their bright birds and flowers, 
Their moss-covered rocks, 

Shady nooks and green bowers. 

I love the blue sky, 

So calm and serene — 
I love this great earth, 

When robed in bright green. 

I love the brook, 

With its waters so bright ; 
That reflect the sun by day, 

And the moon and stars by night. 

I love the broad, deep river, 
That flows a-past our town ; 

And empties into the Chesapeake bay, 
Some hundred miles farther down. 

[Aged 13 years.] 



KATIE'S GPvAVE 

rvuT on the top of yonder hill, 

There is a little grave, 
Where everything is sweet and still, 
Where windy pine trees wave. 

Beautiful birds their anthems sing, 
And gay colored flowers bloom. 

All around where Katie sleeps, 
As if to chase away all gloom. 

I might easily forget her, 

For 'tis years since we laid her there, 
And naught remains to remind us of her 

But a silken curl of hair. 

But none of us forget her. 
With her lovely form so fair. 

We think we yet see the smiling face. 
If it is years since we laid her there. 

[Aged 13 years.] 
2 



MY DREAM 

?mwAS a beautiful day in balmy June, 

When the sunny warblers were all in 
tune, 
That I set out for a shady nook, 
And at last sat down by a babbling brook. 

And as I reclined on the daisied bank, 
Into a sweet slumber I soon sank, 
And then I thought that I was a fairy, 
A being so lithe, free, graceful and airy. 

Now I played with the curls of some infant 

fair. 
Or smoothed back the mass of thick black 

hair, 
From the gentle invalid's fair, round face. 
As the wind fanned her brow with a dainty 

grace. 

3 



4 MY DREAM 

Now I came to an heiress reading a book. 

But she spoke not a word nor gave me a 
look, 

So I tossed the brown curls 'round her fair 
neck and face, 

When I was suddenly awakened by sweet lit- 
tle Grace. 

[Aged 12 years.] 



LINES 

TusT look what I have got, 

And they are all for you, 
I gathered them this morning. 

And they're dripping yet with dew. 

I gathered them from the woods. 
And hedges and meadows too, 

I have daises, buttercups, trailing arbutus 
And also violets blue. 

I found a little wild rose bush. 
And lifted and brought it home, 

It is full of buds and when it has flowers. 

Why, then, I will bring you some. 

» 
To-morrow morning early, 

I'll bring you more flowers like these, 

And I'll bring you a basket of the soft 

green moss. 

That cushions the roots of the trees. 

[Aged 12 years.] 

5 



THE SUNNY PAST 

T AM dreaming, sadly dreaming, 

Of the bright, the sunny past. 
When the days were naught but sunshine, 
But, alas ! they did not last. 

When my path was strewn with flowers, 
And gay birds their songs did sing, 

All around as if to greet me, 

And make my ears with music ring. 

Friends I had where'er I sought them. 
They welcomed me with smiles and bows. 

But their friendship was not constant. 
And they have broken all their vows. 

But those days have passed and never 
Will there be joy for me again, 

Life to me will be darkness, 

Trouble, toil, and care, and pain. 

[Aged 13 years,] 
6 



WASHING DAY 

rjlHE children are cross 

And I am at loss, 
For I can't get my washing begun, 
I've to knead up the bread. 
And comb Mary's head. 
And mend Ellen's frock. 
And it's eleven o'clock. 
Oh ! when will my washing get done ? 

I've burnt the dinner, 
Ain't I a sinner, 
What will my husband say ? 
A knock at the door, 
And look at the floor ! 
Give me the broom 
Till I sweep the room — 
Oh hateful washing day ! 

7 



8 WASHING DAY 

Oh ! what a clatter ! 

Girls, what's the matter ? 

You've done nothing but fight all the day ; 

You still fight on 

When you know it is wrong, - 

And you're such a bother 

For your poor tired mother ; 

Stop that fighting, I say. 

Well, washing day is o'er, 

I breathe freely once more ; 

But I must make a big fire. 

For my ironing is to do, 

And I may get through, 

If I work till bedtime. 

And that's half-past nine. 

And next week my washing I'll hire. 

- [Aged 13 years.] 



CHRISTMAS EVE 

mo-NiGHT they say is Christmas eve, 

And Santa Claus will be here afterwhile, 
I think he is on the housetop now, 
For I hear the creaking of a tile. 

Ma says he brings nice things for children — 
I wonder what he will bring for me ; 

I want a new dress, and a doll like Mary's, 
And toys for my Christmas tree. 

I know brother John wants a drum and a top. 
And a poll-parrot in a gilded cage ; 

And Tom, he wants a fur cap and coat 
For now they are all the rage. 

But I think that I must go to sleep, 
For fear Santa Claus won't come ; 

I must try to be a good little girl 
Or else of candies I'll get none. 

[Aged 13 years,] 

9 



I AM WEARY 

4i T AM weary — oh so weary," 

And the speaker leaned her head 
Oh a hand of snowy whiteness, 

And closed her eyes in silent dread. 

Why so weary ? how, I wonder, 
Had she for her bread to toil ? 

Had she to support a mother. 
Was her life nought but turmoil ? 

No, her dress betokens riches. 
Diamonds in her hair do shine ; 

And other gems do sparkle brightly 
Around, as if they were a mine. 

She was weary, 'cause the dandies, 
All around her oft did flock ; 

And tried to win her for her riches. 
With silly flattery and talk. 

ID 



I AM WEARY II 

And no wonder she was weary; 

For flattery one does despise, 
And often there is no truth in it, 

*Tis nothing at all but worldly lies. 

[Aged 13 years.] 



I WANT TO GO HOME 

44 T WANT to go home," said a little child, 

Stopping from play among the flowers, 
**I want to go home to my mother now, 
I am tired of playing in the bowers." 

** I want to go home to my mother now, 

I want to lay my head upon her breast ; 
1 want her to smooth my ringlets down, 
I want to go home, I want to rest." 

^' I want to go home," said a wayward youth, 
*'I am tired of roaming alone, 
I want to see my father again. 

And seek his pardon for a wayward one." 

*< I want to go home," said a sailor old, 
'' I am tired of being at sea, 
I would see my wife and children dear, 
And fondle the little one on my knee." 

12 



I WANT TO GO OME 13 

*'I want to go home/' said an artist to me, 
**I would see the country I've painted 
oft, 
I would see the beautiful angels and roam 
Over the lovely plains aloft." 

The child went home to its mother dear. 
The youth to his father returned, 

The sailor at sea went home to his wife, 
But the artist for his home still yearned. 

[Aged 13 years.] 



WHAT I LOVE 

T LOVE the little birds 

That flit among the flowers, 
That sing their songs of praise 
Through all the summer hours. 

I love the little lamb 

That in the meadow plays, 

I love to see it run around 
And watch its antic ways. 

I love the murmuring brook 
That ripples on its course, 

I love to think how it was formed 
And wonder at its source. 

I love the little violet 

That hangs its drooping head, 
And wonder why it does not rise 

Above its humble bed. 
14 



WHAT I LOVE 15 

I love to see the mountain 

That rears its proud head 
Above the objects on the earth 

It seems as though it said, 

'*I do not want to stay with you, 
Poor insignificant things 
Of earth, I fain would fly 

To the clouds; would I had wings !'* 

What a contrast between the violet 
And the mountains you may see. 

The mountains teach us wicked pride, 
The violet, humility. 

[Aged 13 years.] 



SUNBEAMS 

XTThere go to find the sunbeams ? 

Not in the palaces bright, 
Where gold and silver glitter 
With grandeur in the light. 

Where ladies dressed in splendor 
With pearls and diamonds gleam, 

Where lords in revels drink their wine ; 
Not there stays the bright sunbeam. 

Nor within the damp and chilly walls 

Of misers, old and gray. 
Who hoard their money cent by cent, 

Not there the sunbeams stay. 

But in the meadows bright and gay 
The sunbeams revel in their play, 

And chase the butterflies on their way , 
There the bright sunbeams stay. 
i6 



SUNBEAMS 17 

And on the cottage floor they lie 
In happiness ; Oh ! tell me why 

They seem as happy as you or I, 

Because that is the home of the sunbeam. 

[Aged 13 years.] 



FRIENDSHIP 

TT^RiENDSHip, how harsh to the ear 

Of the lone and forsaken refugee, 
How sweet, yet how false, 

When no one has friendship for thee. 

''Friendship," the rich man sings, 
Yes, friends you have, it is true. 
But ah ! they seek your wealth ; 
No loving friend have you. 

''Friendship," the cottage child cries. 
With her real true Friend above, 
" I love Him, I love Him," she cries, 
"And all I have is His love." 

Yes, yes, the child is right; 

She has the best friend to love, 
Not all the friends she has below 

Will she change for the one above. 

[Aged 13 years,] 

i8 



TO THE SEA 

"QEAUTiFUL sca SO deep and wide, 
Many gems thy waters hide ; 
Shells of every form and hue, 

Lie hidden beneath thy waters blue. 

You secrete many a pearly bed. 

You also cover many dead ; 
Noble ships have found a home, too, 

Beneath your waters, sea so blue. 

The moon that shines on the quiet lea. 
Also lights your waves, bright blue sea, 

And the quenchless stars their night vigils 
keep. 
O'er you when you peacefully sleep. 

Beautiful sea, so deep and wide. 

Many gems thy waters hide, 
Shells of every form and hue 

Lie beneath thy water so blue. 

[Aged 12 years.] 
19 



TO NELLIE BARTLEY 

QOME years ago, my little friend, 

When I was quite a girl. 
To please your ma I wrote some rhymes 
About her little pearl. 

She thought a babe so fair and sweet 

As her dear little Nell, 
Could surely call my talent forth 

And woo the poet's spell. 

And so, in many childish words 

I praised each feature fair, 
The deep'ning rose tint in your cheek. 

The wealth of auburn hair. 

I have the verses, Nellie, yet. 

All safely stored away, 
Sweet reminiscences they bring, 

Of childhood's happy day. 
20 



TO NELLIE BARTLEY 21 

Remembrance of each youthful dream 
Comes when I con them o'er, 

Of castles such as you will build, 
In but a few years more. 

I have not done my dreaming yet, 

Some castles fair and high. 
Still point their gleaming turrets 

'Neath the future's gilded sky. 

Ah ! Nellie, it is sweet to dream, 

But I have found, alas ! 
Imagination's fairy scenes 

Will never come to pass. 

And Nellie, it is better far 

To live among the real. 
Than spend the hours of golden youth 

Amid the bright ideal. 

For if we'd climb to flowery heights, 

And crowns of laurel wear. 
We first must face the hard cold world, 

And sup with toil and care. 



12 TO NELLIE BARTLEY 

Dreaming will never help us through 

The battles of our life, 
For we must work if we would be 

The victors in the strife. 



NELLIE BARTLEY 

A DARLING little baby, 
■^ A darling little girl, 
To both mamma and papa, 
A precious, priceless pearl. 

Of course she looks like papa, 
Blue eyes and auburn hair ; 
And lips like winter berries, 
And dimpled cheeks so fair. 

I wonder if Miss Nellie 
Could talk, what she would say ; 
I guess she'd give you something 
To laugh at all the day. 

About the little pug nose, 
I cannot make a rhyme ; 
I will when I learn to compose better, 
And that I'll do in time. 
23 



24 NELLIE BARTLEY 

I guess IVe nothing more, Nellie, 
To say just now to you ; 

But I hope I'll see you soon, Nellie, 
And papa and mamma too. 



UP THE HILL A BERRYING 

/^NCE on a sunny summer morning, 

When the sun was up in the sky, 
And the birds were singing merrily, 

And the dew on the grass was dry, 
I thought I'd go a berrying, 

Must you know the reason why? 
I think that you might easily guess, 

If you your thoughts would ply. 

It was because a neighbor's daughter — 

Nellie was her name — 
Went for berries on summer mornings, 

And I thought 'twould be a shame 
For to let her fill her basket. 

For I knew it would be large ; 
So I thought I'd go and help her, 

So up the hill I made a charge. 
25 



26 UP THE HILL A BERRYING 

''Nellie dear, your basket's large, 

I think too large for one to fill. 
Mine is full so let me help you 

As we journey up the hill.'* 
So we worked 'bout an hour, • 

Till we got her basket filled. 
We sat it down — and up came Rover — 

And all of Nellie's berries spilled. 

Then Nellie she began' to cry, • 

When she thought she'd have to climb 
Up the hill for some more berries — 

But I gave her some of mine. 
'* Oh," she said " how can I thank you ? " 

''Nellie, dearest one," said I 
"I'd rather give you all my berries 

Than to sit and see you cry." 

" But Nellie, dearest, let me ask you. 

If you will be mine ? 
Shall I, alone, or will you help me 

The rugged hill of life to climb ? " 



UP THE HILL A BERRYING 27 

She dropped her head and, blushing deeply, 

Answered me without delay, 
'' I will come and climb it with you, 

Just as we climbed the hill to-day." 

rWritfen at 13 years.] 



BALL ROOM GOSSIP 

TN the corner of a ball-room, 
Sat a lady young and fair ; 
Beside her lolled a gentleman, 
In a large and easy chair, 

*< Oh ! dear me, Mr. Ashton, 
I want you just to look 
Right straight across from us. 
And see that Sarah Cook. 

*'She is all the time a-flirting 
With young Mr. Hugay, 
Though I know he really hates her 
By what all people say. 

*' And look at rude Belle Adams, 
She is really kissing her hand 
To that gentleman over yonder 
Who looks so very bland. 
28 



BALL ROOM GOSSIP 29 

*' And look at that young sprite, 
So frisky and so antic ; 
And see that queer old maid 
Who wants to be romantic ; 

*' And see that tall young man 
Who is so very lank ; 
And his face, it is so red 
He looks as if he drank. 

*'And see that pretty mamma 

She is trying to make a match 
For her last unmarried daughter, 

I know she'll get some rich old bach. 

*' Oh, dear ! just hear that blonde — 
I mean the tall brunette — 
She says she doesn't know a soul 
With whom to coquet. 

** But oh ! I know her well, 

She likes to be fashionably dressed, 
And cannot go down to the store, 
Without she has on her best. 



30 BALL ROOM GOSSIP 

*< Oh just behold that widow 

With her powder, curls and paint. 
I see she is at her old trick again, 
Making an effort to faint. 

**I know that she thinks that by fainting 
To awake some gentleman's compassion, 
And catch a third rich husband, 

In that ridiculous fainting fashion." 

But, gentle reader you and I 

Will leave the lady fair 
Still talking to the gentleman 

Who lolls in the easy chair. 

[Written at 13 years.] 



THE AUTUMN WINDS 

npHE autumn winds are sighing 

Through the naked leafless trees ; 
I hear their plaintive moaning 

So unlike the summer breeze. 
They tell of many sorrows, 

They whisper of the dead ; 
They bring to memory many thoughts 

Of happy days now fled. 

[Aged 12 years.] 



31 



iLater ^^oem^ 

BEAUTIFUL SEA 

TJEAUTIFUL sea, so deep and wide, 

Many bright gems thy waters hide ; 
Shells of every form and hue 
Lie hidden beneath thy waters blue, 

Bright is the gleam of thy snow-capped 

waves ; 
Ah ! who would dream that myriad graves 
Pave thy low streets, and fair human locks. 
Entwine with the Algae that deck thy dark 

rocks ? 

Wild are the tales thy dark grottoes could 

tell. 
How the coy mermaids with treacherous 

spell 
Woo the unwary down to their last sleep 
'Mid the coralline beds of the beauteous 

deep. 

32 



BEAUTIFUL SEA ^^ 

Many an argosy, rich with the weight 
Of wealth untold, and the precious freight 
Of human life, has sailed from shore 
And sunk 'neath thy waves to rise no more. 

Beautiful sea ! when the storm rages high, 
Beautiful still, when calm as the sky. 
And yet more beautiful when the moonbeams 
Impart to thy waves their silvery gleams. 

Beautiful sea ! we must bid thee farewell, 
When we ascend with immortals to dwell; 
For in that land where spreads the Life-tree, 
One hath foretold there shall be no more 
sea.* 

* Revelations 21 : i. October 21, 1869. 



TO A DEPARTED SPIRIT 

Tl/TY home is near thee, loved one ! and 
around thee, 
Where'er thou art ! 
Though still mortality's thick cloud hath 
bound thee, 

Doubt not my heart ! 

Mrs. Heman's Song of a Guardian Spirit. 

Thou hovering 'round me ! oh, can this be 
true ? 
E'er gazing on me with thy spirit eyes ? 
So near, beloved ! yet hidden from my view 
As much as tho' thou dwelt beyond the 
skies. 

34 



TO A DEPARTED SPIRIT 35 

When my faint heart is sinking 'neath the 
weight 
Of sorrows none may share since thou art 
gone, 
Art thou the ministering one, my spirit-mate, 
God sends with gifts of strength for His 
weak one ? 

When lone I seek the dear old trysting place, 
Where oft we sat and whispered love vows 
sweet, 
And standing there, murmur with upturned 
face, 
Fond names to thee, oh, do my whisper- 
ings meet 

Thy listening ear ? and dost thou kindly send 
A greeting back to me — thy young heart's 
choice, 
Or is it but my fancy which doth lend 

So sweet a cadence to the wind's low 
voice ? 



36 TO A DEPARTED SPIRIT 

When from the hollow hearts ^round me I 
turn, 
With longings for the love I lost with thee, 
Art thou so near, my friend, thou canst dis- 
cern 
How every mem'ry, sword-like, pierces 
me ? 

When mingling with the gay, 'mid festal 
throng, 
Where hearts are light and joyous as the 
air 
Where [time] time flies by with jest and 
happy song. 
Dost thou watch o'er me, dear one, even 
there ? 

And can't thou see, how by a careless word, 

Or burst of song, whose strains we, too, 

have known. 

The Marah-f ounts within my heart are stirred, 

Moaning for joys that with the past have 

flown? 



TO A DEPARTED SPIRIT 37 

When night's dim shadows the green hills 
enshroud. 

And from all human things I steal apart 

To where my soul dare breathe aloud, 

By thy lone grave, the Mecca of my heart. 

Dost thou still watch beside me ? no reply 
Of blest assurance falls upon my ear ; 

No white-robed vision greets my upturned 
eye. 
But in my soul, beloved, I feel thee near. 

September 24, 1869. 



THOUGHTS OF THEE 

Insc7-ibed to T. J. E. 

"HEN twilight hours are fading 
In deeper shades of night, 
Where stars o'er earth are shedding 

Soft rays of silver light, 
My thoughts afar are wandering, 

Beyond the mountains high, 
That proudly stretch their lofty peaks 
Toward yonder western sky. 

When o'er the earth are breaking 

The gentle morning hours, 
And birds are sweetly singing 

Amid their leafy bowers, 
Again my thoughts on waking 

Fly, darling, right to thee, 
Away across the mountains 

Where I would gladly be. 

Autumn, 1866. 
38 



SLANDER 

A Soliloquy. 

•'Malice, as well as death loves a shining mark." 
Fannie Fern. 

UT1I7E may go through this world, but we'll 
go very slow 

If we listen to all folks say as we go ; 

We'll be worried, and fretted, and kept in a 
stew, 

For meddlesome tongues must have some- 
thing to do." Old Poem. 

Egotistical heart ! to so eagerly seize, 
And apply to yourself such maxims as these, 
To find in them strength for adversity's 

morn, 
While you smile at the green serpent's darts 

in proud scorn. 
39 



40 SLANDER 

'^A shining mark," heart! Yes, what were the 
use 

P'or slander to rain her vile storms of abuse 

On the low and unclean ? Her work's to de- 
fame 

With her subtle poison honor's bright name. 

If we stop, says the bard, whene'er foul 
breezes blow 

Across our life path, we will go very slow ; 

Now my heart, if you'd stop for each threat- 
ening squall. 

You know very well you would not go at all ! 

'^ For meddlesome tongues must have some- 
thing to do," 

Ah ! heart, you can witness that saying true; 

And what brilliant imag'nations have some 
folks you know, 

The great poets themselves, can't surpass 
them, I vow — 



SLANDER 41 

What deep penetration ! what powers of 

thought ! 
To be wasted, alas ! on a circumscribed 

spot, 
Oh, heart ! if such talents you only could 

claim. 
You would win for yourself the great garland 

of fame ! 



But lo ! all these gifted ones set down con- 
tent, 

One poor mortal's vices with power to paint; 

They tie in a bag, and lie at her door, 

All the dark tales they brew in an inspired 
hour. 



To some Satan comes as an angel of light. 
Enticing his victims away from the right ; 
To you, heart, he came, prepared to devour. 
When he knew you were pierced, in afflic- 
tion's sad hour. 



42 SLANDER 

What a generous foe ! here's a conquest he 

thought, 
But pain's fierce, white heat oft makes 

strong, does it not ? 
He was vanquished — to God give the glory 

and praise. 
Who fashions the strength to the length of 

the days. 

Then let there no hatred within thy depths 

lurk. 
Though malice and envy have done their 

worst work ; 
Stand fast my heart ! unflinchingly bear 
The weight of the cross and the crown you 

shall wear. 

October 28, 1869. 



FAIR HELEN OF KIRCONNEL 

["Fair Helen of Kirconnel " as she is called in the 
Scottish Minstrelsy, throwing herself between her be- 
trothed lover and a rival by whom he was assailed, re- 
ceived a mortal wound, and died in the arms of the 
former. ] 

TjlAREWELL, my own beloved ! the crimson 

^ tide 

Is gushing forth, bearing my life, my 

breath. 
Ere thou hast claimed me for thine own — thy 

bride, 

I have been won by the destroyer — Death! 

I die for ^/lee, beloved ! O, joyful thought 
That smooths my pathway to an early 
grave ; 
I, who have loved thee so, have proudly 

bought 
The gift of life for thee — I die to save. 

43 



44 FAIR HELEN OF KIRCONNEL 

Thou weepest, my beloved! will gladness fade 
Out of the laughing skies and brilliant 
flowers, 

When I — thy joyous Helen — low am laid 
Within the stillnes of secluded bowers ? 

Thy sorrow moves me, sweet, I grieve for 

thee. 
For I have felt in hours of pensive thought 
How dim and dark earth-land would be to me 
If thou — my life — my star of hope — were 

not. 

But time will kindly mellow thy despair. 
And years will soothe thy poignant grief 
to sleep. 
And thou may'st e'en another win and wear, 

But none like me so true — with love so 
deep. 

Again farewell ! O, clasp me close my love, 
An icy chill is creeping o'er my heart ; 

My spirit soon will wing its flight above, 
Kiss me once more, my own, ere I depart. 

November 8, 1869. 



DRIFT SOFTLY, WINTER SNOW 

"TVRIFT softly, winter snow, 

Beneath the wild wind's storm 
There lieth still and low 

A fair, unconscious form ; 
A heart as warm as mine. 

Less than a year ago. 
Of love and hope the shrine — 

Drift softly, winter snow. 

Drift softly, winter snow, 

Above my precious dead. 
Although he cannot know 

That summer's warmth has fled ; 
He careth now no more 

That seasons come and go 
As in the years before, 

Yet, softly drift, fair snow. 
45 



46 DRIFT SOFTLY, WINTER SNOW 

Drift softly, winter snow — 

The light of the fair morn 
Beams with a softer glow 

When falling on his tomb. 
The stars that virgil keep, 

More sweet and tender grow 
Above where he doth sleep — 

Drift softly, winter snow. 

Drift softly, winter snow, 

Above your covering, 
Where my beloved rests low 

I'll make my oifering : 
Pale flowers that no art 

Can save from winter's blast, 
Yet they will show my heart 

Still wanders with the past. 

Drift softly, winter snow. 

Beneath the wild wind's storm 

There lieth still and low 
A fair unconscious form; 



DRIFT SOFTLY, WINTER SNOW 47 

A heart as warm as mine 

Less than a year ago. 
Of love and hope the shrine — 

Drift softly, winter snow. 

December, 1869; 



ONLY WAITING 

U Anly waiting ^till the shadows 

Are a little longer grown/' 

'Till the early twilight deepens, 

And the din of day is gone ; 
'Till the stars in silver beauty 

Gaily deck the brow of night, 
And the young moon proudly rising 
Sheds o'er earth her radiant light, 
''Only waiting" for my darling 
Who will come at eventide, 
To renew the vows he fondly 

Made to me, his promised bride. 

''Only waiting 'till the shadows 
Are a little longer grown," 

'Till life's twilight slowly fadeth. 
And life's weary work is done ; 

'Till my Saviour being ready 

Bids me rise with Him to dwell, 
48 



ONLY WAITING 49 

Where I may with saints and angels 
My Redeemer's praises swell. 
" Only waiting" 'till the loved ones 
Who have gone in years before, 
Beckon me to join their number 
Over on the other shore. 

December lo, 1867. 



THE SPIRIT'S STRIVINGS 

TTTHEN the peaceful hour of twilight 

Comes at close of day, 
And the whippoorwill is singing, 

Loud its evening lay ; 
Tell us then, is not God's spirit 

Striving with your heart. 
Bidding you to turn to Jesus, 

From your sins depart? 

When among the gay you wander. 

Bound by pleasure's chain, 
Do you not, 'mid jest and laughter. 

Hear that voice again, 
Telling you that earthly pleasures 

Soon must fade away ; 
Bidding you to gather treasures, 

That will not decay ? 
50 



THE SPIRIT'S STRIVINGS 51 

When a loved one gently passes, 

To the other shore, 
And the shadow of the death king 

Flits within your door ; 
Then does not the spirit whisper 

Of a throne above. 
Of a crown that may be yours 

By a life of love? 

Oh, my sister, if the spirit 

Striveth thus with you, 
Listen to its gentle teachings, 

Life begin anew ; 
And my brother, dear, remember, 

Jesus for you died ; 
Choose Him then, for He will ever 

Be a faithful guide. 

February 8, 1868. 



DREAMING 

^nnis evening ; the pale moon is gleaming 

Far up in the starry sky ; 
And I, in the darkness am dreaming, 
Of years that have flitted by. 

I sit with my weary hands folded, 
And gaze at the flames as they glow ; 

'Till I fancy the embers are moulded, 
In forms that I loved long ago. 

Fair memory points to the hours. 
That knew not of sorrow and strife ; 

When palm trees, and fountains and flowers, 
Made goodly the scenes of my life. 

But oh ! there's an end to life's Elim, 

For sorrow must come to us all ; 

The palm and the flowers will wither. 

The fountains will turn into gall. 
52 



DREAMING 53 

But hope with pearly white fingers, 
Points away to the land of the blest ; 

And fondly my sad heart lingers, 
On the promise of future rest. 

Ere long I shall enter the portals. 

Where God in His fullness is known ; 

And join with star-crowned immortals. 
In worship before His throne. 

March 9, 1868. 



TREASURES 

A N old blue cap that a soldier wore, 

Where the shot and shell were flying ; 
Where the air was filled with the cannons' 
roar, 
And the groans of the wounded and dying. 

A soft brown curl that shaded a face, 

The sweetest on earth to me ; 
That holds in my heart a sacred place, 

And haunts me where'er I may be. 

A shoe — a dainty, wee baby shoe, 
That Nellie, our darling wore ; 
Ere the angel of death closed those eyes of 
blue. 
That will open nevermore. 
54 



TREASURES 55 

A violet, that lifted its modest head 
'Neath the blue of southern skies ; 

'Twas plucked by a friend from the lowly- 
bed 
Where a fellow hero lies. 

April 20, 1868. 



SUSQUEHANNA 

rriHY waves are glist'ning 'neath the sun's 
bright rays, 

Thou river of my pride ; 
And I with tenderness and admiration gaze 

Upon thy bosom wide. 

The far-famed waters of the Juniata blue, 

Meet thine in fond embrace ; 
And yonder mountain-top, now clad in sum- 
mer's hue 

Is mirrored in thy face. 

Fair river ! as I stand upon thy shore, 

Sweet visions come to me; 

I dream of all the happy days of yore 

That I have spent near thee. 
56 



SUSQUEHANNA 57 

How oft in childhood I have idly played 

Along thy brink, 
And watched the lazy cattle as they strayed 

To lave and drink. 

Each pebble from thy shore was stored 
away 
With greatest care ; 
And mussel shells, broken and brown with 
clay, 
Were treasures rare. 

In later years, when 'neath the moon a silver 
sheet 

Thy waters lay, 
How o^t have love-songs, low and sweet, 

Been borne away 

On the night wind, as a light boat 

Sped o'er thy breast, 
When all was silent, save the night-bird's 
note 

Of vague unrest. 



58 SUSQUEHANNA 

Dear River ! Thou wilt ever hold a place 

Within my heart, 
For in bright visions, which old time can 
ne'er efface. 

Thou play'st a part. 

No other river e'er so fair will seem 

To my fond eyes, ^ 
Until my feet shall tread beside the stream 

In Paradise. 

June I, 1868. 



EVENING 

T ONG ago behind the hill tops 

Disappeared the King of day, 
And the glimmering twilight hour, 
Now is fading fast away. 

Evening clad in starry raiment, 
Holds o'er earth her gentle sway ; 

Hiding all the glare and glamour, 
Stilling all the noise of day. 

To the care-worn and the weary, 
Bringing sweet release from toil ; 

Kindly veiling from their vision 
Daylight's trouble and turmoil. 

Bringing to the heavy-laden 

Peaceful hours for thought and prayer ; 
Soothing by its quiet beauty, 

Till forgotten is their care. 
59 



6o EVENING 

Thoughts of God, the great All-Father, 
Come to cheer, all doubts depart ; 

Visions of His love and mercy 
Maketh glad the weary heart. 

Maiden fair and happy lover 

Hasten on with quick'ning pace ; 

Meeting 'neath the star-lit heaven, 
At the favored trysting place. 

Thus to all the evening hour 

Bears its messages of love, 
Filling hearts with deep thanksgiving. 

To the Father up above. 

October 27, 1868. 



TO-MORROW 

Respectfully dedicated to Miss T. M. Coiiser. 

" Boast not thyself of to-morrow, for thou knowest not what a 
day may bring forth." — Proverbs 27:1. 

TJOAST not of to-morrow, 

O light heart of mine ! 
Thou know'st not what sorrow 
Ere then may be thine. 

Untimely frost blackens 

Fair buds in a night, 
And a woe all undreamed of 

As swiftly may blight. 

Thy present is joyous, 

Thy future gleams fair, 

Hope gilds every vision — 

Nor hinteth of care. 
61 



62 TO-MORROW 

But think of that evening, 

When calm skies looked down 

On fair Egypt's children, 
And wore not a frown; 

And yet when the morning 
Dawned over the land, 

Grim death claimed the eldest 
Of each household band. 

Or picture that palace 

Of Chaldea's king 
Where the hours were joyous 

With gay banqueting. 

Where beauty smiled proudly, 
And wine sparkled bright ; 

While music enchanting 
Swelled out on the night. 

And mark you, how sudden 

Upon the fair wall. 
Was written the message 

Which terrified all. 



TO-MORROW 63 

And ere the morn's brilliance 

Made Luna's light wane, 
The royal Belshazzar 

Was marked with the slain. 

Then claim not the future, 

O proud heart of mine, 
For only the present 

Thou mayest call thine. 

To-morrow may find thee 

All pulseless and cold, 
Or the prey of an anguish 

Too deep to be told. 

June, 1870. 



A LOVE SONG 

[Written for the Pestalozzi Literary Society of Baltimore, and 
respectfully dedicated to Miss Jennie Wilson.] 

rpHE moon rose up at ten last night, 

And peered above yon mountain height, 
Flooding the river at its feet 
With amber glory, calm and sweet ; 
And restless birdies, wide awake. 
Kept twittering in the neighb'ring brake. 
Low telling to their listening wives 
The thoughts and dreams of their bird-lives, 
As if such nights were made, forsooth ! 
For birds to chat, and not in truth 
For them to nestle down and sleep 
Till bright Aurora bids them peep. 

We met down on the sandy beach 

As we had promised each to each ; 

Our dainty bark was soon untied. 

And pushed off from the river side. 

64 



A LOVE SONG 65 

Slowly we drifted down the stream, 
Wrapped in the bliss of love's first dream ; 
And the fair moon above perchance, 
In bending earthward her bright glance. 
Caught the warm gleam within our eyes, 
And heard the fond, low-voiced replies 
Of heart to heart, as on my hand 
Was slipped love's slender golden band. 
O, tell me, radiant amber moon. 
And tell me, joyous night of June, 
If any heart in the wide earth 
Found in your reign so glad a birth 
Of joy and peace, as did mine own 
When last night's stars so softly shone ? 

To-night an hour after ten 

The amber moon will rise again, 

But many, many miles, I ween, 

Will stretch their weary length between 

My love and me ; but one bright ray 

Gleams through the shadow which doth lay 

Upon my heart, for ere the moon 



66 A LOVE SONG 

Illumes a night of next year's June, 
He will return, my hand to claim. 
And give me for my own, his name. 
O ! then, dull Time, speed swiftly on, 
And haste the hour of his return. 

June, 1870. 



AN IDYL 

[To Miss Florence S. Van Fossen.] 

npHE warm sunshine streameth 
O'er valley and hill, 
And brightly it gleameth 

On river and rill. 
The grain waxeth golden 

In many a field, 
And soon to the reaper 

Its fullness will yield. 
The ring of the scythe 

In the hay-field is heard, 
And afar sounds the call 

Of the red-winged black bird. 
Lambs sport on the hillside, 

And down in the mead; 

Where the brook murmurs music. 

Cows lazily feed. 
67 



68 AN IDYL 

Glad voices of children 

On light winds are borne, 
And the heart of all nature 

Beats gladly this morn. 
But what does it matter, 

This fullness of earth ? 
And what do I care for 

These voices of mirth ? 
For the hand of the Chastener 

Upon me is lain, 
And my young heart is pierced 

With arrows of pain. 
Earth's beauty, once pleasing. 

Now grieveth me sore. 
Since the eyes so beloved 

Shall view it no more. 
The song of the bird 

In the neighboring tree 
Makes me wish he were chanting 

A requiem for me. 
And I mourn that the flowers, 

Whose bright banners wave. 



AN IDYL 69 

Do not breathe their perfume 

O'er me in my grave. 
Ah ! wherefore can earth 

Be so smiling and gay, 
While a shadow so dark 

On my spirit doth lay ? 

July I, 1870. 



THE FLIGHT OF TIME 

mHE record of another year 
Is quickly being sealed ; 
The weal and woe that it has wrought 
Both hidden and revealed. 

The snowy garb of winter days, 

The frost-work on the trees, 
First vanished 'neath the balmy breath 

Of springtime's pleasant breeze. 

Then springtime's blossoms drifted down 

And carpeted the earth, 
And joyfully we turn to hail 

Fair summer's rose-crowned birth. 

She ruled awhile, then laid aside 

Her flower-spangled crown ; 

And autumn's wealth of golden fruit 

On us was showered down. 
70 



THE FLIGHT OF TIME 71 

The emerald leaves first turned to gold, 

Then faded, pale and dry ; 
And now the trees their bare, gaunt limbs 

Are stretching to the sky. 

Old Time speeds on, and very soon 

Another year will dawn ; 
And this with all its joy and grief 

Will be forever gone. 

December 8, 1868. 



LINES, WRITTEN IN A GRAVEYARD 

QUNSET has faded o'er the emerald earth, 
The purple twilight steals with her sweet 
calm ; 
From out the distant town floats sounds of 
mirth, 
And nature's voices blend in evening 
psalm. 

Myriads of insects hidden 'mongst the grass. 

Send ceaseless chirps from their untiring 

throats; 

Near by flit restless birds, and as they pass. 

The air resounds with their harmonious 

notes. 

Close to this silent city stretch rich fields 

Of waving corn ; beyond yon rustic fence 
Is stacked the fragrant new-mown hay; earth 

yields 

Gifts rich and varied to regale each sense. 
72 



WRITTEN IN A GRAVEYARD 73 

On yon green hill the cattle idly graze, 
The low tinkle of their bells I hear ; 

While, 'neath yon tree, where I in bygone days 
Have sat with one, than my own life more 
dear. 

Reclines a maid with lover by her side. 
Oh ! does she hear words passsionate and 
low 

As those / heard one happy eventide. 

As I sat there with one now '' lying low ?'* 

And will her love dream its fruition meet, 
Or will the bursting bud ne'er be a flower? 

Will all that makes life dear to her, and 
sweet. 
Be torn away in one brief, stormy hour ? 

Will her life's future, gleaming now so fair, 
With stately halls where love and joy pre- 
side. 
Fulfill its promise; or will it to her bear 
The robes of mourning, for the robes of 
bride ? 



74 WRITTEN IN A GRAVEYARD 

It may be ; but an ardent prayer goes up 
From my young heart, so torn and pained, 

That to her lips God may not pass a cup 
Like to the one whose bitter dregs I've 
drained. 

Let all her dreams be tranquil ; haunted not 
By faded joys earth's powerless to restore; 

God grant to her a peaceful earthly lot. 
And guide her safely to the golden shore. 

July 30, 1869. 



TO A LOST ONE 

" Where he lies buried ! 
That single spot is the whole world to me." 

— Coleridge's Wallenstein. 

T COME to thee, my pure, my peerless love, 
Amidst the gloom of night I seek thy side; 
Will not thy spirit leave its home above 
To meet me here, thine own, thy chosen 
bride ? 

How well we loved ! And sweet one dost 
thou know 
How thy dear image haunts me night and 
day? 
How thoughts of thy sad fate fill me with 
woe. 
And from my aching eyes drive sleep away ? 
75 



76 TO A LOST ONE 

We loved too fondly ! Oh, we might have 
known 
Our love's excess would bring its punish- 
ment, 
Such deep heart-worship should be God's 
alone. 
And so his heavy chastening rod was sent. 

Oh, how I plead, that God thy life would 
spare. 
That from my lips He'd take the bitter 
cup. 
But ah ! He heeded not my earnest prayer. 
But bade me yield my heart's best treasure 
up. 

Thou hadst thy dreams of fame, and wouldst 
have won 
The laurel wreath had God crowned thee 
with years — 
But Heaven claimed thee just when thy life 
begun. 
And in my selfish grief I weep these tears. 



TO A LOST ONE 77 

Earth was too much of Heaven when thou 
wert here, 
Life was so fair, so full of lovers sweet 
joys, 
But all is now a desert, waste and drear, 
And things once prized seem only useless 
toys. 

There's not one voice the wide earth o'er and 
o'er. 
Whose tones have power my soul to touch 
or thrill ; 
Within my blighted heart forevermore 

The founts of tenderness are sealed and 
still. 

Though from my life the fair rose-leaves are 
shaken, 
And the sweet song has ended in a wail. 
Though earthly joy and hope with thee were 
taken 
And our love dream is henceforth but a 
tale. 



78 TO A LOST ONE 

I'll bear in mind thy parting words to me, 

And strive to quell this inward woe and 

strife ; 

And till God calls me to thy home with thee 

Bear, brave and strong, the great loss of 

my life. 

And thou'lt be near till death shall re-unite 

Thy soul and mine, my angel, guard and 

guide ; 

And when my spirit takes its homeward flight 

Thou'lt claim me then — thine own, thy 

chosen bride. 

July lo, 1869. 



LINES 

Suggested by the finding of a dead bird in the woods. 

rpHY Story is ended, ah, beautiful bird ! 

Thy song ne'er again in the grove shall 

be heard ; 
Thy life-blood has crimsoned the brown of 

thy breast. 
And thy mate will call vainly for thee from 

her nest. 

Wherefore hast thou lingered so long in our 

clime ? 
Didst thou not mark the coming of early 

fall-time ? 
I know thy companions have all lately flown 
To the beautiful haunts of a balmier ?ope. 

79 



8o LINES 

To-day in my ramblings not one note I 
heard, 

Save the low, frightened chirps of thy trem- 
bling mate-bird. 

As she restlessly fluttered aloft in the tree 

Whose wide-spreading branches o'ershad- 
owed thee. 

Ah, poor widowed bird ! newly robbed of 

thy mate, 
I think of thee sadly and mourn for thy fate; 
I wonder to-night if thou'lt languish and die, 
Or wing thy lone flight to a lovelier sky. 

I know thou wilt mourn for the beauty that*s 

dead 
And grieve for the sound of the song that 

has fled ; 
But He who doth notice the wood-sparrow's 

fall 
Will guide all thy wanderings— hear thy least 

call. 

September, 1870. 



A SONG TO SLEEP 

r\OME, gentle sleep, on silver pinions soon 
Wing here thy way, for later grows the 
night ; 
Veil from my eyes the lustrous golden moon, 
That floods my chamber with its yellow 
light. 

Bring me forgetfulness of daily care, 

Unconsciousness of shadows that oppress, 

And when thou givest visions, kindly spare 
The scenes whose vain recalling doth dis- 
tress. 

But let me freely rove in lands that lie 

Afar beyond the island-studded sea, 

From where the hardy north-pines tower 

high, 

To the luxuriant blooms of tropic lea. 
8i 



82 A SONG TO SLEEP 

'Twill only be in dreams, yet let my feet 
Press the green sod of far-famed Switzer- 
land ; 
And let me see the sennhuts* resting sweet 
High on the Alpine mountains, tall and 
grand. 

And let me tread that nursury of art — 

The Rome that sat upon her seven hlils — 

And Athens, where Aspasia played her part, 
And woke in Pericles passionate thrills. 

And Palestine ! Ah, I would not forget 
Her sacred hills, and vales, and shining 
streams ; 

Her dim old towns and blue Genessaret, 
But pray they may be imaged in my dreams. 

Then hasten, sleep, on silver pinions soon 
Wing here thy way, for later grows the night; 

Veil from my eyes the lustrous golden moon, 
That floods my chamber with its yellow 
light. 

September, 1870. 
* Sennhuts — The huts of the Swiss cow-herdsmen. 



UNCLE JOE 

T)ooR Uncle Joe ! Long months and years 

Have swiftly sped around, 
Since friends bedewed with mournful tears 
Thy new-made earthen mound. 

The fretted marble at thy head 

Is growing gray and worn, 
And long neglect hath greatly sped 

The growth of weed and thorn. 

For grief has slept this many a day, 

As it e'er does and will ; 
And nearest kin scarce ever stray 

Out to thy burial hill. 

And yet thou art not quite forgot ; 

Thy portrait decks my wall, 
Thy name and form with tender thought 

I often-times recall. 
83 



84 UNCLE JOE 

And when the hall of mem'ry fair 

Looms up at will of mine, 
Full many a picture gleameth there, 

Made bright by deed of thine. 

But I no longer am the child 
You used to love and know, 

Whose weary hours you oft beguiled 
In the dim long ago. 

Ah, no ! The years that never pause 

In their untiring flight 
Have borne me far from where I was 

Upon thy sad death-night. 

And the life-path that I have trod 
Has not been always fair ; 

For I have felt the Chast'ner's rod, 
And bowed 'neath weights of care. 

And I have seen my dearest dreams 

Reach an untimely goal, 
And waves from bitter Marah-streams 

Have surged across my soul. 



UNCLE JOE 85 

And thus in every mortal's course 

The light and shade are blent; 
And well it is, if no remorse 

For grave misdeeds is sent. 

Then rest thee on ! I would not call 

Thy presence back to earth ; 
Thou hast but met the fate of all 

Who are of mortal birth. 

October, 1870. 



THE MORNING AFTER THE SNOW 
STORM 

A WHITE mist curtains the mountain, 

The river-breast's heavy with slush j 
And the brown of the drear hills has vanished 
'Neath the strokes of a magical brush. 

The slender rose-tree by my window, 
But yesterday shiv'ring and bare, 

Has donned in the silence of night time 
A garment most wondrously fair. 

And deft, fairy fingers have woven 

Of frost-work a delicate chain. 

For the evergreen silently guarding 

The gate at the foot of the lane. 
86 



AFTER THE SNOW STORM 87 

No perfume floats up from the garden, 
No bird-song drifts down from the trees ; 

No shout of the sun-tanned reaper 
Is borne on the morning breeze. 

But the laughter of rosy-cheeked children 

Rings out with a musical trill, 
As they haste with their gay-painted sledges 

To join in the sport at the hill. 

And the jingle of merry bells falleth 

Unceasingly on the ear. 
And their music, like old songs, recalleth 

The mem'ries of many a year. 

January, 1871. 



MERRY MARCH WIND 

For the Pestalozzi Literary Society. 

rvNWARD thou sweepest, oh, wild wind of 

^ March, 

Over the house-top and over the arch ; 

Over the hillside and over the plain, 

All the while whistling a wonderful strain. 

Bending and swaying the trees in thy fun, 
Tossing the river waves high in the sun ; 
Whisking the hat from the school-boy's face, 
Teasing him oif in a wild goose chase. 

Gleefully tangling the long flowing curls 

That shadow the foreheads of beautiful girls, 

Till their fond lovers, half jealous, declare 

A wish that the gods would transform them 

to air. 

88 



MERRY MARCH WIND 89 

See the fair maiden with daintiest feet, 
Whom thou o'ertakest on highway or street; 
Does she not blushingly give thee a frown 
For thy wild pranks with her bonnet and 
gown ? 

Like a young giant, incited to wrath, 
Thou flingest each object away from thy path ; 
Merry March wind, so hearty and hale. 
Canst thou not pity the things that are frail ? 

Out where the forms of our loved ones are 

laid. 
Is not the race of thy merriment stayed ? 
No, I have watched thee dance gaily around, 
E'en where white marble betokens a mound. 

Parting the long yellow grasses that fain 
Would shield the cold form from the pitiless 

rain ; 
Rustling the dead leaves bestrewn o'er the 

earth. 
Never once checking thy wildness or mirth. 



90 MERRY MARCH WIND 

Onward thou sweepest, oh wild wind of 

March ! 
Over the housetop, and over the arch ; 
Over the hillside and over the plain, 
All the while whistling a wonderful strain. 

March 6, 1871. 



NELLIE, THE HUNTRESS 

QHE lived in a hut far out in the woods, 
Where dwelt the wild beasts of prey 
That snuffed 'round her lonely home by night, 

And followed all through the day. 
But what cared she ? She felt secure 

In her little lowly home ; 
With her dagger and rifle by her side 
All through the wood she would roam. 

She fought the wolf full many a time, 
And killed the wild, fierce bear ; 
She followed the panther through all his 
haunts. 

And oft frightened the timid hare. 

And oft when excited in the chase 
She would ride as fleet as the wind, 
While from underneath the little straw hat 

The long hair floated behind. 
91 



92 THE HUNTRESS 

But why did she lead such a life as this, 
Why not dwell in the world of the gay ? 

Ah, the gay world had taught her a les- 
son severe, 
And she left the gay home one day ; 
And now she lives far out in the woods 

With God and nature alone. 
And Nellie, the huntress was as happy — 
quite — 

As a queen is on her throne. 

Irving Female College, April, 1864. 







THIS WAR 

H, would this war was over, 
This long, this bloody strife 

Which has very cruelly ended 
Many a brave warrior's life! 

A sister has lost a brother, 
And now she may but mourn 

For the youth so young and noble 
Who will nevermore return. 

A wife is made a widow, 

And now she long may weep 

For her brave and manly husband 
Who in southern soil doth sleep. 

A child has lost its father. 

And often through the day 
In its innocence it wonders 

Why ^'Pa don't come to see his May." 
93 



94 THIS WAR 

A rebel ball has pierced his heart 
That heart that was so true. 
(Unfinished.) 

Composed at Irving Female College, April, 1864. 



LINES WRITTEN FOR THE SOLDIERS' 
REUNION 

Held in New Bloomfield, Pa,, October i8, 1877. 

npHE first faint notes from my untutored lyre 
In early youth were breathed to Free- 
dom's name, 
And years have taught that bard cannot as- 
pire 
To loftier theme or more ennobling strain. 
Ah, then, thou Muse ! who dost inspire my 
song 
To Freedom, let thy thoughts be conse- 
crate. 
Welcome this phalanx of the soldier throng. 

Who fought to keep her shrine inviolate. 
Be thine, O willing Muse, the grateful task 

Their many deeds of valor to recall; 
Pour out the wine of mem'ry's fragrant flask. 
And let it shimmer o'er the deeds of all. 
95 



96 THE SOLDIERS' REUNION 

No more the din of war is in the air, 

Its cruel echoes long have died away ; 
Knapsacks are dusty, sabres rusting where 
They long have rested from the bloody 
fray. 
The brilliant battle-flags, grimy and torn. 
Are folded ; and each glittering sword is 
sheathed ; 
Muskets are stacked, and through the fields 
are borne 
The melodies by peaceful workers breathed. 
And homes are happy ; then upon this day 
Forget not, these are of the soldier boys 
Who, in the weary march and deadly fray. 
Wrought for our land the peace she now 
enjoys. 

They tramped through tangled wood and 
mountain glen. 
Through fevered swamp and baleful black 
bayou ; 
Languished perhaps in dreary prison pen 



THE SOLDIERS' REUNION 97 

For Freedom's flag — the red, the white 
and blue. 
Theirs are the tears of many a battle plain, 

The memories of great privations borne ; 
Of patient sacrifice and hours of pain, 

Afar from home and loving kindred torn. 
What now our fortune, had their sturdy arms 

And those of their brave comrades failed 
us, when 
Black treason filled the land with dire alarms, 

And reared her hydra-head in every glen ? 

What would it brook us this autumnal day 
That plenteous crops are garnered east 
and west ; 
That sunrise clouds of gold and coral ray 
Portend a dawning with rich promise 
blest? 
For all the lands we till, the homes we claim 
Were then the haughty foeman's whom we 
dread. 
Ours were a heritage of grief and shame 



98 THE SOLDIERS^ REUNION 

And we were friends and Liberty were 
dead. 
Our glorious flag, now floating high and 
higher, 
Were trailed in dust, trampled 'neath das- 
tard feet, 
While in its place on sunlit tower and spire 
Were hung the banner we disdain to greet. 

O, hopeless picture ! shrinkingly we turn 

With deeper gratitude to those who wore 
The true blue colors, and with sorrow burn 
For all the dead ones who can come no 
more. 
In southern everglade, by southern stream, 
'Neath blue waves where the Cumberland 
went down. 
These heroes, slain for Liberty, now dream 
The endless sleep, having attained the 
crown. 
On Fame's escutcheon written are their 
deeds. 



THE SOLDIERS' REUNION 99 

Embalmed in faithful hearts their memo- 
ries dwell, 
Who answered with their lives their coun- 
try's needs, 
And won the meed, ''Servant, thou hast 
done well." 

To-day we cannot greet them — mute they lie, 
Heedless of hopes that in our bosoms stir ; 
Nor peal of drum, nor horn, nor bugle cry 

Can be to them a thought's interpreter. 
But when these soldiers, having mission still 

To fight for truth in years of civic rule, 
Have further striven with brave and virtuous 
will 
To break the teachings of dark error's 
school : 
When they in life's great battle faint, and fold 
^ Their pallid hands and close their weary 
J eyes. 

The comrades whom they now no more behold 
Will welcome to reunion in the skies. 



THE WANDERING MINSTRELS 

(Written for " Our Fireside Friend ".) 

T|TE paused at the edge of town, 
^^ The friend of my heart and I, 
Our dreaming souls entranced 

By the beauty of earth and sky; 
The river murmuring by 

From the sloping sward at our feet, 
Widening like a silver span, 

From mountain to mountain complete. 

Soft clouds of a glorious dye, 

And delicate gold-wrought frills 
Bent down from an amethyst sky 

To kiss the brows of the hills. 
The rays of the dying sun 

Lay tremulous on the trees, 
When the wand'ring minstrels came 

And flung their strains on the breeze. 

lOO 



THE WANDERING MINSTRELS loi 

Midnight of hair and of eyes, 

Where do the rovers belong? 
Swift is the glance that descries 

Their land of romance and song ; 
Italia ! the silver-sprayed sea 

Between us surges and thrills, 
But the throb of the musical heart 

Wakes response amid our hills. 

Ah ! list to the wonderful sounds 

That quiver and softly glide 
From the violin, and harp-strings 

That the swarthy fingers guide ! 
Where did they catch the air? 

From a master brain and hand, 
Or is it the wail of souls 

Exiled from their native land? 

Away to the far-off heaven 

Like a troubled prayer it floats. 

Pain sighs in the higher strains, 
And sobs in the under notes. 



102 THE WANDERING MINSTRELS 

As I hearken, vanish from view 
The pictures of nature nigh, 

And I wander amid the scenes 
Of a bright Italian sky. 

Rich, sloping vineyards here 

With their purple fruitage shine, 
Gay-hearted people press 

The grapes into gleaming wine, 
Wild is the dance, light the song, 

Melody lives on the breeze, 
Sweet with the myrtle's breath. 

And odors of fragrant trees. 

The inise7'ere ebbs away 

Recalling me from my dream. 
Of arches ruined and gray. 

Where the flashing fountains gleam, 
Back for the power that swayed 

Is past, and I cease to rove 
By the distant Alban hills 

And orange and olive grove. 



THE WANDERING MINSTRELS 103 

The sunlight is dead in the air, 

Stars burn in the dusky sky, 
The minstrels stray on, while the moon 

Mounts up to her throne on high, 
Kind nature is spreading her dews, 

Like a mist of tears they fall. 
Dear Dame, dost thy pitiful heart 

Weep at the weird music's call? 



THE ALPINE HORN 

mHE setting sun with crimson splendor gilds 
The icy rocks, and cliffs of Alpine 
heights ; 
Its bright rays peer where the eagle builds 

His lonely nest, and flash a thousand lights 

Of sparklingsilver o'er the mountain streams. 

While the trees catch the resplendent glow 

Which from the regal, dying day-god beams, 

And stand transfigured to the gaze below. 

How peaceful are these mountains ! Solitude 

Hath claimed them for her kingdoms, here 

she reigns. 

Her calm unbroken by the noises rude 

That desecrate the stillness of the plains. 
104 



THE ALPINE HORN 105 

The clouds so far above the vales below, 
Stretch down from heaven tender, kindly 
arms 
That seem to circle 'round the peaks of snow, 
And veil, and shield them from the world's 
alarms. 

Here on the sunny slopes the Alpine rose. 

Above the tufted mosses nods and gleams, 
Where in the quiet hours the cattle browse, 

Ne'er straying farther than the neighbor- 
ing streams. 
All day the kine-bells' dreamy music sweeps 

Adown the mountain passes to the vales. 
But their melodious tinkle on the steeps, 

Grows faint and fainter as the daylight 
pales. 

But hark! there peals from yon most lofty 
height 

Upon the sunset-hush a piercing sound. 
Startling the lammer-geyer to sudden flight. 

While the chamois up and away doth bound. 



io6 THE ALPINE HORN 

But it is not the daring huntsman's horn, 
For he hath sought the hearth-fire of his 
home, 

Until the rosy flush of early morn 

Bids him away in the wild chase to roam. 

It is the signal horn piping its praise. 

And now on every peak with one accord, 
The Senns' their cheery-trumpets quickly 
raise. 
And shout a loud response, '^Praise ye 
the Lord ! " 
Then all the treasure caverns 'mid the hills 
Catch the refrain, and the glad sound pro- 
long, 
While every mountain echo raptly trills 
The trembling music of the shepherd's 
song. 

When the last cadence dies on the still air, 
Each humble knee upon the turf is pressed. 

While every heart is raised in fervent prayer 
For God's protection thro' the hours of rest. 



THE ALPINE HORN 107 

O ! scene sublime, can poet's dream tran- 
scend 

Its beauty; or the pencilings of art? 
Do not enraptured angels downward bend, 

And smile blessings on each lonely heart. 

Their kind devotions finished, now again 

The trumpet's peal upon the twilight falls: 
A glad '^ Good-night " is piped by every Senn 

Before he seeks the shelter of his walls. 
*' Good-night," the rocks repeat, and the 
dells 
Flutter and tremble with the new-born 
sound ; 
Among the tall tree branches loud it swells, 
Then falls and dies along the mossy 
ground. 

Now to his hut each weary herdsman hies, 
And night's deep silence broods on all the 
hills, 

While slumber kindly veils the tired eyes 
From all the daylight's troubling ills ; 



io8 THE ALPINE HORN 

And the great God looks down through all 
the night 
On these, the children of His love and 
care, 
AVhile to each peak bright spirits wing their 
flight. 
And guard the sleepers in the Senn huts 
there. 



CUMBERLAND STREET AND HIGH 

TTo ! all ye blithesome people, 

In the country and the town, 
Ye gents in search of hats or hose. 

Ye maids who want a new gown, 
Ye housewives ready to purchase 

Of fall goods a supply, 
Come to Sheller's store on the corner 

Of Cumberland street and High. 

Come with your country produce, 
Come with your cash hard earned, 

For here is the place in all the town 
Where a bargain may be turned. 

The shelves are newly ladened 
With goods of the finest brand. 

And prices as fair and moderate 

As at any place in the land. 
109 



no CUMBERLAND ST. AND HIGH 

Prints of the neatest patterns, 

Alpacas of every grade, 
Merinos, poplins, and wool-delaines 

Of loveliest figure and shade. 
Divers kinds of muslins, 

Flannels heavy and warm. 
Velveteens and water-proof cloths 

To shield from the drenching storm. 

Fine shawls, and a stock of notions 

Suited to every mind, 
Laces and fringe, and veils and gloves 

For the pleasing of womankind. 
For gentlemen, hats of the latest style, 

And shoes, and slippers, and boots, 
And cloths and cassimeres that will make 

Most charming and durable suits. 

The heart of the thrifty housewife 

Must throb with joy anew, 
As she scans the store of good things 

That are opened to her view — 



CUMBERLAND ST. AND HIGH iii 

Yards of the cheeriest carpets 

For the brightening of her rooms, 

Oil cloths heavy and richly made, 
And a splendid stock of brooms. 

Loveliest sets of glassware 

And dishes to gladden the eye, 
Mount Joy flour, the very best 

Of any that you can buy. 
Syrups and sugars the finest, 

And rice from the southern fields. 
And coffee the richest flavored 

That the soil Brazilian yields. 

Good, strong teas that have traveled 

From China many a mile, 
Chocolate, corn starch, farina. 

And spices from every isle. 
Nutmegs and cloves from Molucca, 

Ginger from Sierra Leone. 
Cinnamon bark from Ceylon, 

Allspice in the Indies grown. 



112 CUMBERLAND ST. AND HIGH 

Don't fret, though Jay Cooke has suspended, 

For there is a large supply 
Of goods at the store on the corner 

Of Cumberland street and High. 
Then hasten from every hamlet, 

From Factory, Furnace and Mill, 
From Boston down by the mountains. 

On up to Baskinsville. 

Come from Duncan's fair island — 

Now that a bridge, fine and new. 
Spans the song-famed waters 

On the Juniata blue. 
Come from the Tuscaroras, 

And from thrifty Shermansdale, 
From Fishing Creek, over the ridges. 

From Pisgah, and Wild Cat vale. 

From beautiful Montabello, 
From Allen's picturesque cove, 

Come one by one if it please you. 
Or come in a merry drove. 



CUMBERLAND ST. AND HIGH 113 

There are goods we've not mentioned, 

But you will find a supply, 
Of everything at the corner 

Of Cumberland street and High. 



THE LATEST BALLAD 

mo our townsmen, and rural friends greet- 
ing : 

Old and young, maids and matrons, all, 
Come and list to the spring-time repeating 

Of the message sent you last fall. 
Another new stock of fine dry goods 

For all who are ready to buy 
Just arrived at Sheller's store on the corner 

Of Cumberland street and High. 
For some new array, all are longing ; 

Fabrics airy, dainty and clean, 
For is not all nature rejoicing 

In robes of the liveliest green ? 
The hills that the soft clouds are kissing, 

The meadows that slopeth along 
Where the creek winds its patient way on- 
ward 

114 



THE LATEST BALLAD 115 

Softly rippling its tribute of song, 
Not a tree nor a shrub in the valley, 

But in nature's grand opening hath a share, 
Each having sought out an adorning, 

Fragrant, marvelous and fair. 
One branch of the tall maple family 

Is out in a delicate green. 
And their cousins have gathered around 
them 

Fair mantles of silver-green. 
The peaches that live in the orchard 

Have new robes as pink as a blush. 
And the apple trees sway their gay garments 

And nod at the song of the thrush. 
I know of a pear 'mid whose branches 

The song birds seem eager to hide. 
That wears a robe, white and shimmering 

Enough for the loveliest bride. 
And down in the garden the flowers 

Are brilliant and varied in hue. 
And I'm sure you are anxious to match them 

With something becoming and new. 



ii6 THE LATEST BALLAD 

Call and see us, our new goods are charming 

And will certainly suit you in price, 
For you'll find that a small sum will purchase 

Many articles useful and nice, 
To go into details is not needful, 

Rest assured that we have a supply 
Of life's good things here on the corner 

Of Cumberland street and High. 



T 



VERSES 

To G. R. B.— 

|Hou art not forgotten ; if my prayers could 
win 

Thee exemption from sorrow, could free thee 
from sin 
Thy life would lead high : 
May it lead so — high over all ills that beset 

thee, 
High over all care that has power to fret 
thee, 
And enter God's sky. 

Christmas, 1881. 

What loves, what griefs, what hopes and 

fears, 
We two have shared in by-gone years ! 
Hearts tried like ours time cannot sever, 
This gift and I are thine forever. 

Christmas, 1881. 

117 



ii8 VERSES 

Accept this little jar, 'tis thine 
Because no jar did e'er incline 

Our hearts apart ; 
Fill it with flowers or golden cream, 
Or any sweet thing you may deem 

Worthy its art. 

Christmas, 1881. 

When thy fair hands these vases fill 
With blooms, may memory distill 
From out the past some thought of me. 
Fragrant and pure as flowers be. 

Christmas, 1881. 

We scarce have met; and yet between 
God's children here on earth, I ween, 
There is a tie that may excuse 
The seeming freedom of my Muse 

In thus addressing thee. 
Accept this cup; and were it filled 
With choicest things of life distilled 

I better pleased would be. 

Christmas, 1881. 



VERSES 119 

I command thee, friend of mine, 
Every day to drink thy tea 
From this cup which now is thine ; 
Thus it may remind of me. 

Christmas, 1881. 

My o'ertasked Muse is dumb; or I would 
send 

Some charming verse to thee ; 
So take this cup ; it and my love may lend 

New comfort to thy tea. 

Christmas, 1881. 

Linnie Hess, can you guess 
Who sends this with a kiss ? 
It is I, my little friend ; 
In return I pray you send 

Each December 
One thought after me. 

Remember ! 



B« 6 P li 



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